Praise for
CATHERINE PALMER
and her novels

“Veteran romance writer Palmer…delivers a satisfying tale of mother-daughter dynamics sprinkled with romance.”

— Library Journal on Leaves of Hope

“Enjoyable…Faith fiction fans…will find this novel just their cup of tea.”

— Publishers Weekly Religion Bookline on Leaves of Hope

“ Leaves of Hope is a very emotional tale that’s easy to relate to. Ms. Palmer ignites soul-searching conflict and carries her readers on a remarkable journey they will long remember. This is a sharer.”

— Rendezvous

“Believable characters tug at heartstrings, and God’s power to change hearts and lives is beautifully depicted.”

— Romantic Times BOOKreviews on “Christmas in My Heart”

“ Love’s Haven is a glorious story that was wonderfully told…Catherine Palmer did a stand-up job of describing each scene and creating a world which no reader will want to leave.”

— Cataromance Reviews

Thread of Deceit
Catherine Palmer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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For the least of these

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Questions for Discussion

Chapter One

“‘Come, you who are blessed by the Father, inherit the Kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world.’ For…I was naked, and you gave me clothing.”

—Jesus Christ, Matt. 25:34,36

“ P aint? You’re kidding, right?” Anamaria Burns set one hand on her hip and the other on her editor’s desk. “Carl, you hired me because my investigative reporting took a first-place award from the Texas Press Association. I moved from Brownsville to St. Louis to cover hard news for the Post-Dispatch. So far, you’ve asked me to write about a neighborhood beautification project, an ice cream stand, a sports arena and a parade. Oh yeah, and sewage. Now you want me to do a story on paint?”

City editor Carl Webster leaned back in his chair, took off his glasses and rubbed his temples. With budget cuts, a glaring error on the Sunday edition’s front page and three new interns to break in, his Monday-morning staff meeting hadn’t gone well. A heavy smoker, who existed on a diet of black coffee and doughnuts, he looked tired.

“Not every article can be a prizewinner, Ana,” he said. “You know that.”

“But paint? ”

“Lead paint. It’s a problem here.” He took a moment to huff a breath onto each lens and rub with a white tissue. “St. Louis County just got a two-million-dollar grant—”

“You shouldn’t do that, you know,” she inserted. “Clean your glasses with a tissue. The paper fibers scratch the lenses. You should use a soft cotton cloth.”

Carl set the glasses back on his nose and scowled through them at his latest hire. “As I was saying, the Department of Housing and Urban Development awarded St. Louis County a two-million-dollar grant to seal or remove old lead-based paint. The county will add a half-million bucks. This is their third HUD grant, and the money always goes to owner-occupied single-family houses or to apartment buildings. So there’s your story.”

“I don’t see it. Maybe a couple of inches in the Metro section—HUD gave the grant, and now the county is going to paint houses.” She scooped up a scattered pile of press releases, tamped them on Carl’s desk and set them down again. “How is that news?”

“What draws readers to a story, Ana? Money, sex, power. And kids.” He lifted a corner of the paper stack with his thumb and riffled it like a deck of cards. “See, children are eating the paint chips that fall off the walls in these old buildings downtown. They’re breathing in dust from crumbling paint. And lead-based paint—which was used in every building constructed before 1978—can cause brain damage in children under six years of age.”

“Okay, that’s bad.”

“That’s not all.” He pushed around the papers she had just straightened until he found the one he was looking for. “‘Breathing lead dust and consuming lead paint chips,’” he read, “‘can cause nervous system and kidney damage. The affected child can exhibit learning disabilities, attention deficit disorder and decreased intelligence. There may be speech, language and behavior problems, poor muscle coordination, decreased bone growth, hearing damage, headaches, weight loss—’”

“I get it, Carl. I do.” She paused a moment, chewing on the nail of her index finger. Nail-biting was her worst habit, Ana admitted, evidence of the stress in her life. In a constant quest for perfection, order and control, she had nibbled her nails down to nubs. Not even pepper-laced polish had helped.

“But the county has the money now,” she said. “They’ll fix the problem.”

“In houses and apartments.”

“I’m sure they’ve already taken care of school buildings.”

“Is that the only place kids spend time?”

She lifted her head, feeling her news antennae start to tingle. “How about day cares?”

“Small, non-home-based day cares are slipping through the cracks.”

“Churches?”

“Basement Sunday school rooms. Vacation Bible School areas.”

She thought for a moment, tapping her lower lip. “Restaurants?”

“Mostly taken care of.”

“What about after-school clubs? We had several in Brownsville. Kids of all ages showed up. If their parents couldn’t afford day care, some little ones spent the whole day there. They had basketball courts and crafts programs, that kind of thing.”

“Now you’re with me.” Carl nodded. “I’d like three or four articles, maybe a sidebar or two. And put some heart into it, Ana.”

Wrong body part, Ana thought. She had made a name for herself with her nose.

Ana Burns could sniff news a mile away. Since coming to St. Louis five months before, she had left several strong story ideas on Carl’s desk. No doubt they were still there—lost in the clutter. Instead of letting Ana follow her nose, the editor had assigned a bunch of boring, fluff pieces and then buried them in the Metro section.

She didn’t want her work to show up in Section B. She was a page-one woman. P-I, that’s where her byline belonged. The other reporters kidded her about this quest for perfection—as had her colleagues at the Brownsville Herald. She was used to scoffers, and she paid no attention to them.

Carl leaned across stacks of files and unopened mail to hand her a sheet of paper. “Here are the names of some places to get you going. Start with Haven—it’s a recreation center not far from here. Our publisher’s on the board of directors, so they’ll cooperate.”

“Why wouldn’t they?”

“Unflattering publicity. The Health Department is on their backs. Family Services, too, I imagine. Most of these small operations survive on a shoestring budget and can’t afford to fix the paint problem.”

Anticipating endless treks from one tedious interview to another, Ana shook her head. This was so far from her vision of big-city journalism she could scream. Instead of reporting breaking news, investigating political shenanigans and digging into the affairs of the city’s high and mighty, she had been reduced to covering issues a new journalist would cut her teeth on.

“Carl, can’t you give this story to one of the interns?” she asked. “Let me write something with meat on it. I heard the mayor is—”

“I’m giving the project to you, Ana. You’ve got two weeks.”

“An entire series in two weeks? But I’ve got assignments on my desk already.”

“This is life in the fast lane, Ana. You’re not in your sleepy little Texas border town anymore. Everyone on the city staff has to pull their own weight.”

“I want the fast lane,” she said hotly. “That’s why I left Brownsville. I crave excitement and challenge. But a story on lead paint doesn’t cut it.”

“Ana, if you’re unwilling to complete your assignment, I’ve got ten reporters lined up waiting to take your job.”

Carl turned away and began punching numbers into his phone. Shutting the door of his office, Ana gripped the list in her hand and tried to make herself breathe. Her sandals felt as if they’d been lined with lead as she made her way back to her desk.

Lose her job? Impossible. She would have no choice but to go home. Back to Brownsville and the house where she’d grown up. Back to her parents, whose phone calls and e-mails still were filled with grief. Their pain became her guilt, and it lay squarely on her own shoulders.

Sinking into her chair, she slid open her desk drawer and lifted out a small, porcelain-framed photograph of two little girls smiling from between their striking mother and their tall, strong father. That day at the beach had seemed so perfect. Ana and her younger sister had played in the sand, digging moats and building castles while their parents lounged beside them on red-and-yellow-striped towels.

Bending closer, she gazed into the face of the child she had been. How old? Maybe ten. An expression of calm, of outward confidence, of self-assurance on the girl’s face in the photo belied the haunted terror mirrored in the brown pools of her eyes. Ana’s sister was smiling for the camera, but she, too, had been filled with anxiety at that very moment. How frightened the two little girls had been during that year and the years that followed, how filled with confusion and despair. Helplessness filled both children even as loving arms surrounded them.

Her heart clenching, Ana slid the frame back into the drawer and set a file folder on top of it. She could not go home. Ever. Brownsville and all that had happened there was in the past. And she would do everything in her power to keep it there.

Two weeks—that was all the time she had. Two weeks to write the lead paint series, while keeping pace with the regular flow of daily assignments that landed on her desk. Fortunately, the short pieces could be handled on the phone. Determined to start on the new project without delay, she opened her purse and checked her supplies. Two notebooks, five pens, a small tape recorder, cassette tape. Cinnamon breath mints. Lipstick exactly three shades darker than her lips. Spare contact lenses and wetting solution. Cell phone. A can of pepper spray.

Feeling better, she snapped the bag shut and surveyed her desk. The assignments file lay in her top drawer. Her in-box held three letters, which she opened, skimmed and tossed into the wastebasket. Her out-box was empty, of course.

Ana always had liked order, structure, neat borders. At the University of Texas at Brownsville, she had turned in term papers early. She tried to do the same with her articles. In grade school, she kept a container of antibacterial wipes in her backpack so she could clean the top of her small desk. That habit had traveled all the way to St. Louis with her, and she never set foot out of the Post-Dispatch building at the end of each day without first giving her desk a good scrubbing. Clean, neat, orderly. As perfect as she could make it. Yes, that was her life.

Ana knew her first stop should be “the morgue”—the newspaper’s archives—which no doubt had a thick file on lead-based paint. But she wanted to get started with her interviews. She settled for e-mailing the newspaper’s librarian to request copies of pertinent articles.

Standing, she shouldered her purse and pushed her chair under the desk. Two sites on Carl’s contact list had addresses in the inner city. Following her editor’s suggestion, she would start at the recreation center and move on to the day care.

Avoiding the elevator, Ana headed down the windowless stairwell, her thoughts on how she could dig up enough information to fill out a series. She increased her speed, now racing down the steps, feeling the burn in her thighs, expanding her lungs to take in air. Earlier that morning she had run five miles from her apartment to the Gateway Arch and back. This was barely a skip, but the exercise filled her with confidence as she burst out into the parking garage and jogged toward her car.

By the end of this year, she planned to run her first marathon. Within five years, she had to claim a Pulitzer. But first she needed to pull three great stories off a wall of crumbling lead paint. She had two weeks. No problem.

“Please sign your name on this list, ma’am.” The teenage boy standing under a tattered green canvas awning held out a clipboard. “And write down your reason for visiting Haven.”

Despite her best intentions, Ana felt a jolt of trepidation as he took a step toward her. Tall and brawny, with deep chocolate skin and shoulder-length dreadlocks, he wore a plain white T-shirt, baggy denim shorts and new Nike high-tops with the laces hanging loose. She often saw such apparel on young men loitering near the Post-Dispatch building or playing basketball in the parks. Tattoos, graffiti, even the color of a baseball cap could be signs of gang affiliation. Though she had taught herself to walk the streets of downtown St. Louis without constantly looking over her shoulder, Ana knew enough to be careful.

As she handed back the clipboard, the youth smiled broadly. Amid a row of straight white teeth, a single gold one glinted in the July sun.

“Thank you, Miss Burns. My name is Raydell Watson. Welcome to Haven. You can walk through now. If you got anything metal in your bag, hand it to me.”

Masking her surprise, Ana glanced at the club’s door. A metal detector blocked the entrance. “Tape recorder?”

He nodded, and she handed him the device, stepped through into the cool building and blinked in the dim light. Laughter, balls bouncing, a referee’s shrill whistle, the smells of perspiration and popcorn assailed her.

“Good afternoon, ma’am.” A girl’s voice drifted up from the gloom. She handed Ana the tape recorder. Petite, with elaborate braids swirling around her scalp, the teen flashed a bright smile. “This is Duke. He won’t bite.”

A German shepherd padded forward from the darkness. Ana gave an involuntary gasp as the animal circled her. She went rigid, elbows high, shoulders scrunched, clutching her bag to her chest.

The girl giggled. “He sniffs for drugs, but you clean. C’mon, Duke. Heel, boy!” The dog trotted to her side and sat down, tail swishing the floor. “You gotta put on this T-shirt, Miss…um…” She glanced at the clipboard, which had somehow materialized in her hands. “Miss Burns. You got on a red blouse, and we don’t allow no gang colors at Haven. Here you go. And don’t roll up the sleeves. That’s a gang sign, too.”

Unaccustomed to taking orders from teenagers, Ana couldn’t summon the will to protest. She set down her bag, glad her khaki skirt had passed muster, and tugged the T-shirt over her blouse.

A drug-sniffing dog. A metal detector. What was going on here?

“I’ve come to see—”

“You gotta talk to Mr. Hawke or Mr. Roberts,” the girl cut in. “That’s the rule.” She spotted another teen dribbling a ball in their direction. “Hey, Antwone, go get Uncle Sam or T-Rex!”

The boy swung around and headed off toward a group of youngsters shooting basketballs at a backboard that hung from the ceiling of the large room. Ana eyed the dog and let out a breath. “This is quite a place. Haven. Wow.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m on Duke today.” The girl’s chin rose with pride. “You only get to be on Duke after you earn fifty points. And you get trained at the police station.”

“So Duke is the…uh…dog. Well, I’m sure that’s quite a responsibility. How did you earn fifty points?”

“Volunteered for stuff like latrine or KP or laundry. And good behavior. You gotta have that or you get your name put on the list, and then you can’t come back.” She straightened as someone signaled to her from a distance. “Okay, you can go over to the offices, Miss Burns. See that door right there with the glass window?”

“With the duct tape?”

“Yes, ma’am. Go on inside and sit down. Somebody be there in a little bit.”

“Thanks.” Ana took her time crossing the room. The building must have been a warehouse at one time. Or maybe a department store. The ceiling wasn’t high enough for regulation basketball, but the kids seemed to have devised a new set of rules to deal with that. They played hard, shouting, scuffling, pressing, forming and reforming as the ball slammed against the concrete floor. Athletic shoes squealed. A whistle pierced the air. The smell of sweat hung like a heavy cloud over the players.

Ana reached the office and noted the silver tape holding the glass together in a broken windowpane. Poor lighting, bare floors and walls, inadequate ventilation. How had this place met municipal codes and been permitted to open in the first place? She could hardly blame the health department for seeking a reason to shut it down.

Stepping into the office, she noticed a boy with brown curly hair and the requisite white T-shirt. He sat hunched over a computer.

“Excuse me?”

He didn’t look up.

“I’m from the Post-Dispatch. I’d like to speak to the director of Haven.”

“Sec,” the youth muttered, peering into the screen as if he could see through it to the inner workings. Ana gingerly took a place on an old red vinyl restaurant booth that served as seating.

The office was a wreck—motivational posters peeling off the walls like dried onion skins, balls of every type scattered on the floor, damp white towels piled high in a corner, a desk covered with broken trophies. Bowling? Archery? The old statuettes had names and dates engraved on the front, and several bore the ignominy of missing arms or broken tennis racquets. What good was a beat-up tennis trophy in a place like this?

“Rats!” the boy said suddenly, slamming his palms down on the card table and pushing away his chair. He rolled backward five feet, his fingers knotted in his curls. “Rats and double rats! This computer is a piece of junk!”

“What kind is it?” Ana asked. She had taken out her reporter’s notebook and was testing her pen.

“An old geezer. Take a look at the size of that screen. Have you ever seen one so small?”

Ana stood and leaned toward the grimy tan computer. “Were you even born when this thing came out?”

“No way. But I can fix it. It’s just going to take some time.”

“You have a lot of confidence. I guess that’s par around here.”

He looked at her for the first time. “Oh, I’m not from here. I’m a summer volunteer. My church sent seven of us from our youth group to work in the inner city for two months. I’m setting up Haven’s computer system.”

“With that old thing?”

He shrugged. “You use what gets donated. My name is Caleb.”

She shook his hand. “Ana Burns. Nice to meet you, Caleb. Any idea where I can find the club’s director?”

“They’re both out with the kids. Uncle Sam and T-Rex—that’s who you need.” He glanced up at a clock with a cracked face cover. “It’s almost time for activity change. One or the other should be in soon.”

“Activity change?”

“Yeah, the place runs like a military camp. Organization, discipline, respect, all that. Everything on the minute. Spit and polish. It’s awesome.”

Ana nodded, unconvinced. “So, are there a lot of volunteers?”

“Not enough locals. Our group came all the way from New Mexico. My friend Billy is working construction upstairs with another guy who knows wiring. They run groups of kids through the rooms they’re rehabbing and teach them about electricity, plumbing, patching cracks and stuff like that. You couldn’t spend more than a couple weeks at Haven without learning something new. Sam’s goal is to give everybody a job skill by the time they’re an adult.”

“Uncle Sam?”

“Better not use that name in vain.”

The voice behind her drew Ana’s attention. She turned to find a broad-shouldered man silhouetted in the doorway. Well over six feet tall, he wore the usual white T-shirt—this one transparent with sweat. As he stepped under the fluorescent light, she noted that he had short brown hair, deep-set blue eyes and a grin that carved a pair of parentheses into the corners of his mouth.

“Sam Hawke.” He stuck out his hand. “What can I do for you, ma’am?”

Ana stepped forward and met his hard grip with one of her own. “Ana Burns with the Post-Dispatch. I understand the health department has contacted you about a problem with lead paint.”

The grin vanished. “We’re working on it.”

“Would you mind if I asked you a few questions, Mr. Hawke?”

“I just told you everything you need to know.” He stepped around her, his damp shoulder brushing against hers. “How’s the computer, Caleb?”

“The motherboard may be fried.”

“You’ll fix it.” He opened a narrow door Ana hadn’t noticed, stepped through it and shut it firmly behind him.

Caleb’s dark brows lifted. “I guess that’s all he has to say about lead paint.”

“I don’t think so.” She tried the door handle and found it locked. This was getting a little more interesting. Was the guy hiding something? She knocked.

“That’s…uh…the bathroom,” Caleb told her.

Blushing, Ana stepped back. “It ought to have a sign.”

“Well, it’s private, you know. For staff and volunteers. Sam’s office is down that short hall, if you want to wait for him there. He usually stops in and checks the schedule during activity changes.”

Ana folded her arms. “I’ll wait right here.”

Caleb shrugged. “You might not want to mess with Sam. Maybe you could get something out of Terell.”

“I’ll mess with Sam first.”

He gave a low whistle and rolled back to his computer. The bathroom door opened and Sam emerged, ducking his head to avoid the top of the frame.

“Still here?” he mumbled, shouldering past her again. He walked to a row of gray lockers that must have come from an old high school gym, jerked one open, stripped off his T-shirt and grabbed a towel. After blotting his face and chest and applying stick deodorant, he tugged a dry T-shirt over his head. Finally, he tossed his dirty laundry onto the massive pile in the corner and turned those blue eyes on Ana.

“Ma’am, Haven is all about respect, and I’d be glad to talk to you if I had anything to say.” He glanced at his watch, then looked around her to check the clock in the gym. “I told you all there is. We’re working on the paint.”

“Mr. Hawke, I have only two weeks to complete this story, and my editor assured me you’d cooperate. In fact, Haven is at the top of my list of sources. I believe our publisher serves on your board of directors.”

He paused a moment. “Davidson’s a good man. We appreciate his dedication.”

“So, are you planning to remove the lead paint or seal it?” she asked.

“Whatever it takes.”

“Exactly where is the paint?”

“It’s around.”

She flipped open her notebook. “How many rooms at Haven have lead paint?”

“A few.” He reached out and pinched the notebook between his thumb and forefinger, slid it from her hand and folded it shut. “We’re dealing with it. That’s all. No story.”

Returning the notebook to her, he smiled. The parentheses were absent. “Thanks for dropping by Haven, ma’am. Now if you’ll excuse me, we’re in the middle of activity change, and I need to check on my crocheters.”

“Did you say crochet?”

She followed him out of the office, scrambling to reopen her notebook and get the cap off her blue ink pen. He lifted a hand as a new group of youngsters took to the makeshift basketball court. Several waved back, some shouting, “Hey, Uncle Sam!”

He strode toward a row of doors that Ana suspected had once led to offices. Stopping at the first in line, he peered inside the small room. “Hey, Terell, how’s finger painting?”

“Good. We got six today.” A large man looked up from a table spread with newspapers. Like Sam, he had a military haircut and arms sculpted with muscle. His long legs, bare and ebony hued, ended in white socks and a pair of the largest sneakers Ana had ever seen. A half-dozen children clustered around him, their fingers and faces smeared with blue, red and yellow tempera paint.

“You showing around a new volunteer?” Terell asked.

Sam glanced over his shoulder at Ana. “Didn’t know you were still here.”

“I’m taking the tour.”

He turned away, the big shoulder in her face, and addressed the children. “She’s a newspaper reporter. Her name is Miss Burg.”

“Burns.”

“Terell Roberts is my partner,” Sam told her. “T-Rex, who’ve you got there?”

Ana shifted her focus to the little girl on Terell’s lap. Fairy-tale princess golden curls crowned her head, but there the image ended. Thin and dirty, the child wore a small white T-shirt and a pair of badly stained purple shorts. Her feet were jammed into sandals at least two sizes too small, crowding her tiny pink toes. Nestled close to Terell, she leaned her head against his broad chest. His arm circled her as she turned sad blue eyes on Ana. Noting that one cheek appeared swollen and tinged with hot pink, Ana’s instinctive alarm system went off. Someone had slapped the child—and not long ago.

“This is Brandy,” Terell said. He bounced her on his knee. “She’s not feeling too happy today. But we’re gonna fix that, huh, sugar-pie? Do some painting, maybe eat a bowl of popcorn.”

The child stretched up and planted a kiss on the man’s cheek. Ana felt queasy.

“Who hit her?” she demanded.

Terell’s head shot up, his eyes suddenly hooded. “Ma’am, I’m taking care of that,” he said in a low voice. “You all get on with your tour now.”

“See you at the next activity change,” Sam told his partner as he shut the door. Before Ana could speak again, he marched on to another room.

“Hey, Lulu,” he said, leaning through the open door. “What are we up to this afternoon?”

Ana peered around his shoulder. A woman with light brown skin perched on a green plastic chair that sagged precariously under her weight. Eight children sat cross-legged at her feet on the concrete floor. “We’re reading Peter and the Wolf, ” she announced, holding up a large book. “Then we’ll listen to the music.”

“You kids be good for Lulu,” Sam said, stepping away from the room.

“Hey, did you see that child’s face—back in the other room?” Ana demanded, hurrying to keep pace with him. “The little girl named Brandy? Someone had slapped her.”

“Listen, Miss Burns.” He swung on her. “I appreciate your interest in Haven and our children. If you want to write an article about lead paint, I can’t stop you. But I have nothing more to say.”

Ana pursed her lips as she followed him to another room. She knew she had not imagined that bruise on Brandy’s face. And the way Terell Roberts had been holding the child unsettled her. Vulnerable children hidden away with grown men inside small rooms did not paint a pretty picture in her mind.

Her heart hammering, Ana paused at the third in the line of classrooms. A young man sat with a group of older children at a round table littered with hammers, nails, blocks of wood screwdrivers and various lengths of wire. Spotting Sam, he shrugged and threw up his hands.

“Same bunch,” he said. “Granny didn’t send hers over at activity change, so I kept these I already had. It’s no big deal, sir.”

“That’s a great attitude, Abdul, but everybody gets a turn at crocheting, just like everybody gets a turn at tools.” Sam gave a thumbs-up. “Let me check on Granny for you.”

“Thanks, sir.”

Sam walked to the last room and poked his head through the open doorway. “Well, hello there, Granny. Looks like your crew is busy.”

An elderly woman with snowy curls and a black velvet pillbox hat peered at him through oversize glasses. “What’s that you say, Mr. Hawke?” she asked loudly.

“I said you look busy here.” He raised his voice. “Nice work!”

Ana studied the center’s director as he stepped into the room and crouched down with the children. On first analysis, Sam Hawke seemed like a decent enough man. She appreciated the stringent rules and the emphasis on respect at the center. The volunteers clearly enjoyed their work, and most of the kids who dropped in appeared happy.

But her introduction to Terell Roberts still bothered her. What had been going on in that small room? Sam Hawke’s presence in such a place also raised questions. What had motivated an educated male in the prime of his life to take on the job of managing a run-down inner-city operation constantly threatened with closing? If the man enjoyed sports, he ought to be coaching a team, or working at a country club somewhere. It didn’t make sense.

What kind of future could Sam Hawke or Terell Roberts have here at Haven? If the recreation center had a large budget and generous donors, the lead paint might not be a problem. But Carl had called Haven a shoestring operation, and the place obviously didn’t generate enough financial support to pay two adults a decent salary. Sam and Terell would be living hand to mouth…unless they were using the building as a front to make money another way.

Ana’s blood raced at the possibility that she might uncover a real story at Haven. Oblivious to her thoughts, Sam hunkered down on the floor and picked up a length of pale blue yarn and a crochet hook. A girl—about ten, Ana guessed—leaned against his shoulder as she tried to show him how to loop the yarn onto the hook. He gritted his teeth, the muscles in his jaw rippling as he thumbed the delicate yarn.

Why this fascination with children? Prickles of alarm shot through Ana like thin, sharp needles at the memory of the way Terell’s hand had rested on little Brandy’s leg. The unhappiness in the girl’s blue eyes was palpable. She had kissed him, but had he slapped her only moments before?

“Tenisha, you’ve got me beat on this one,” Sam said, handing her the crochet hook and a tangle of yarn.

“Aw, you can do it, Uncle Sam.” She looked up at him. “You just have to try.”

“Tell you what, young lady. You play some basketball with me this afternoon—”

“No, I—”

“Now, don’t interrupt, Tenisha.” He held up a big index finger. “Remember the rules? Here’s a proposal for you. Try basketball this afternoon, and tomorrow I’ll come back and let you and Granny help me get started on crochet.”

“But I can’t play basketball, Uncle Sam. I can’t run hardly at all, y’know.”

“Well, how would I know that? I haven’t seen you ever try.”

She gazed down in her lap for a moment, her face glum.

“Do we have a deal?” he asked.

“Okay,” she said in a tiny voice.

“Great.” He gave her a solid pat on the back, and she brightened. Then he raised his voice to the other adult in the room. “Now, Granny, it’s time for activity change. These kids need to go try the tools.”

“What you talkin’ ’bout, boy?” The elderly woman squinted at him over the top of her glasses. “Fry the rules?”

“Tools!” he shouted, then muttered, “We’ve got to get you a hearing aid, Granny.”

As the youngsters scampered to their feet, Ana watched Tenisha lose her balance and stumble into a boy’s path. He barked in anger and gave her a shove. At that, Sam reached down and lifted the boy off his feet.

“Ladies first, Gerald,” he said as he held the youth high, giving Tenisha time to pick her way toward the door. Her unsteady gait revealed cerebral palsy, Ana surmised. So why had Sam Hawke urged the girl to attempt a sport that would only cause further embarrassment? Again, she felt the twinge of alarm and distrust.

Waiting for the group to file toward the toolroom, Ana noticed a figure seated in a shadowy corner at the end of the row of doors. She took a couple of steps closer and discerned a pair of skinny legs emerging from a green skirt. The girl wore the requisite white T-shirt and a pair of pink plastic sandals. Her hair, pulled back into a long braid, gleamed like black silk. She blinked at Ana, her large brown eyes wide.

“Hi.” Ana tried giving a little wave. She’d never been much good with children.

The girl looked away.

Well, that’s that.

Turning back, Ana nibbled a fingernail as she waited for Sam to complete the activity change. If Haven was as positive a place as it proclaimed, an article on the center’s activities might make a good feature for the Everyday section. She would suggest it to the editor.

Her own focus had to be the lead paint problem. Carl had wanted her to use Haven in the story, and she couldn’t very well turn it in without a single decent quote or even a pertinent fact or two about the place. She had to find out which parts of the building still contained the old paint, whether these children were at risk, how Sam intended to fix the problem, and where he would get the money to pay for it.

If the other sources on her list proved as uncooperative as this one, she would be hard-pressed to finish the series in two weeks. The memory of her editor’s promised reaction to such a failure chilled her. She tried to put it out of her mind. Why think the unthinkable?

As Sam stood at the door watching the new bunch of children settle in with Granny and her crocheting, Ana ventured another glance at the girl in the corner. Gazing back at the tall visitor, the child wore an expression of such emptiness, such sad hollowness, that Ana caught her breath. At the look on the girl’s face, a painful ache stirred to life inside Ana, and despite her best effort, she couldn’t immediately suppress it.

“Don’t you want to crochet?” Ana blurted out. She pointed to Granny’s room. “They’ve started a new group.”

The girl turned away in silence, her profile lovely and delicately haunting. Ana swallowed, wanting to go to the girl, to touch her somehow.

“Got the room switch taken care of.” Sam Hawke’s voice at her ear startled Ana. “Miss Burns, I need to ask you to leave now. We don’t allow anyone but volunteers and kids in the building unless they have a good reason.”

“I have a great reason,” she replied. “I want to interview you about your lead paint problem.”

His blue eyes fastened on her, and she knew exactly how an ant must feel as someone’s heel bore down on it.

“I’m not giving you an interview on Haven’s lead paint problem.” He enunciated each word as though she had as great a hearing loss as Granny. “Not today, not tomorrow, not ever.”

“I’ve been assigned this story,” she said as he turned his back on her and started toward the offices. She strode after him. “Haven will benefit from it. It’s obvious you serve needy kids here. Like that girl in the corner—”

“What girl?” He swung around.

“Tut-tut. No interrupting, sir.” She gave him a mock salute, then gestured behind her. “Back there. In the shadows. Who is she?”

He peered over Ana’s shoulder. “I haven’t been able to get her name. She showed up here a couple of weeks ago, but we can’t coax her out of the corner. She doesn’t speak English.”

“Now see? If Haven had to shut down because of the lead paint, that child might not have a place to go.”

“Haven is not going to shut down.”

“How are you planning to fix the problem?”

His face darkened. As a boy ran past with a basketball, Hawke snagged him. “Hey, Ramone, see Miss Burns to the door, would you?”

“Yes, sir.” The young man smiled. “C’mon with me, ma’am. You got to check out before you can go. And we need your T-shirt, too.”

Ana glared at Hawke’s broad-shouldered back as he headed toward his office. He thought he’d gotten rid of her. But he didn’t know Anamaria Burns.

No, sir.

He was staring through the window, thinking about what had happened in Springfield. Since the phone call from his associate three nights before, an acute pain had settled behind his eyes, and he had not slept well. Nothing could be resolved, of course, until he had more information.

What exactly had occurred that night? Who had done it? How much was known?

Despite the lack of details, he had begun working out his own answers to questions that might arise. He shouldn’t give the issue much weight, he reminded himself, because he really hadn’t been involved. The incident had occurred in another state, and he wasn’t responsible for it. If people didn’t take proper precautions, trouble usually found them, and they had no one but themselves to blame. Long ago, he had learned that he could not depend on anyone but himself to take care of things. No one had ever looked out for him, yet see how far he had come.

People counted on him now, and this gave him tremendous power. People feared him. They needed him. And he could demand their silence. Even if this particular situation blew up, he knew his colleagues would remain loyal. They would have no other choice.

As for himself, he would do just as he always had. Things would turn out well. He had organized everything so carefully, putting the building blocks in perfect order, setting each of the safeguards in place. He was cautious at all times, so that nothing could catch him by surprise.

Still, he jumped when his cell phone rang. Turning from the window, he put the phone to his ear as he dropped to the edge of a chair. “Yes?” Keeping his voice low, he spoke into the receiver.

“Hey, this is Sam Hawke over at Haven. How are you today, sir?”

The light tone jangled his nerves. He frowned. Not the call he’d been hoping for.

“Fine, and you?” he responded, forcing civility.

“Good.” There was a brief pause. “Listen, I thought I’d better let you know that someone from the Post-Dispatch dropped by today.”

“A reporter?” His nostrils flared as he took in air. “Why? What did he want?”

“It was a woman. She’s doing an article on our lead paint problem. I think Davidson may have put her up to it.”

“Davidson? Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know, sir. I can’t see how that kind of publicity can be good for us.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Maybe Davidson doesn’t see this situation the way I do, but I chose not to cooperate with the lady. We’re having enough trouble raising money without the newspaper dragging our name through the mud.”

“What did you tell this reporter?”

“That we’re aware of the problem and plan to fix it.”

“Good.” He dug a handkerchief from his pocket and blotted his forehead. The pain behind his eyes was intense. “I affirm your decision completely, Sam. You don’t need reporters nosing around there, that’s for sure.”

“I agree. I thought I’d better let you know in case Davidson mentions it.”

“Certainly. I’ll make sure he understands our point of view. I may give him a call right now, in fact. We need to be on the same page.”

“Great. Thanks, sir.”

“Listen, Sam…if she comes around again, let me know.”

“I doubt she’ll be back. I made my position clear.”

“Excellent. And again, thank you for the call. You were right to bring me up to speed. Anything like this…don’t hesitate to phone.”

“Will do. Better run.”

As the phone went dead, he let out a hot breath. Lovely. A reporter. He should have gotten a name. Clenching his fist around the phone, he turned back to the window.

He stood, stretched his stiff muscles and crossed toward the door. He needed to make some phone calls, but they could wait. Right now, he was going to have to do something about this headache. He hadn’t visited his special closet in many months, and he preferred to keep it that way. But commonplace antidotes didn’t work for him as they did for others. He was unique in so many ways. As usual, he would have to take care of himself. He always had.

Again I see the lightbulb, and I am glad. I close my eyes. Maybe if I close them, I can hide. I want to hide, because I am afraid. Afraid of the room. The terrible room. And the man. The good mean kind cruel love-me hurt-me man.

I say a prayer now. Thank you, God, for the lightbulb.

This is not a prayer I learned in church. My mother used to take me to church, but now we do not go. I have forgotten all those prayers.

I have not forgotten God. Has He forgotten me?

No. I know He is with me, because He gave me the lightbulb. When the pain begins, I open my eyes and look up at the ceiling. The white ceiling. Swirls and patterns, like a white river. Like snow on a river.

I see that lightbulb, and I am not afraid. It glows, shining into my eyes, and I stare at it. I stare and stare until my head hurts. I stare until the blackness comes. I command my eyes to travel into the light, into the whiteness of the bulb, the roundness, the glass, the ceiling, the swirls…

…and it is the sun, the bright sun, and I am running up the hill with my little sister. Come, Aurelia! Hurry up! Mama is calling. Can’t you hear her? We will be late for supper! We will miss our beans and tamales.

Green grass cools our bare feet as we run. Our wet skirts slap against our thighs. We played in the stream near our house today, looking for treasures. We found a tire and a shoe. We found a plastic bottle. We found a battery. Oh, such treasures!

Hurry, Aurelia! I hear her laughing behind me, and I tug on her small hand.

We reach the lane, warm brown stones under our feet. Hot dust swirling around our ankles. Broken glass—be careful, Aurelia! Watch where you are stepping! Don’t hurt yourself!

I take care of Aurelia, and she is safe with me. She laughs and laughs, as though missing our supper is part of the great adventure of this wonderful day. She knows I will get food for her, even if we miss the supper. Even if Mama puts everything away, I will find something for us to eat.

My feet bounce and skip and sing up the path, past the houses, past the wide porches and the children and the mamas and papas and the grandmas. I feel the sun shining on my face, warming my cheeks, kissing me with love. Oh, God, thank you for the sun! For the bright light. For Aurelia and the dusty path and the tamales waiting for us in our home.

Do I hear my mother’s voice? She calls! The smell of roses curls around me, and I am nearly home. Nearly there. I am coming, Mama! I am bringing Aurelia! She’s safe with me.

We run through the light, the heat, the brightness. We run up to our front door, out of breath, laughing, too silly to worry about tamales. I throw my head back, and my hair tumbles down behind me in a waterfall. The sun dances across my cheeks. I open my eyes and look into the sun, the bright white shining sun, the glowing glaring gleaming sun…

…and now I see that the sun is a round, white glass. It is small, and it hangs from the sky by a single black cord. It is the lightbulb. It has saved me again.

Thank you, God.

Chapter Two

S am spotted her the moment she stepped through the metal detector at the front door of Haven.

“Great,” he muttered.

Raydell Watson scowled as he followed the direction of Sam’s gaze. The brawny eighteen-year-old usually asked to work guard duty at Haven’s front door, and Sam had come to rely on him to keep troublemakers out of the recreation center. Despite Raydell’s youth, his dreadlocks, gold tooth and massive tattooed biceps made him an imposing barrier. He loved rap music, and his foul mouth had gotten him into trouble at the center more than once. A life spent mostly on the inner-city streets had hardened the boy at an early age. But to the best of Sam’s knowledge, Raydell had no gang or drug ties, and his loyalty to Haven was unquestionable.

A few minutes before, Raydell had relinquished his responsibilities to a younger boy and had come inside to cool off. Standing beside Sam, he watched the basketball game.

“It’s that newspaper reporter,” Sam said. “I’m supervising practice, and I don’t have time to talk to her this afternoon.”

Hadn’t he made it clear there would be no interview? Of course he had. But here it was just two days later, and she was back, sniffing around like a hound dog on a hot trail.

“Lucius, pick up your feet!” Sam barked as a boy barreled past, nearly tripping on his own sneakers.

“What’s a reporter want with you, man?” Raydell asked.

“The lead paint problem.” Sam had told the youth about the situation earlier. “She’s onto it. Keeps asking me questions that I don’t want to answer.”

“She don’t even see you standing over here,” Raydell observed. “Some reporter, huh.”

“I hope she doesn’t spot me, because I don’t intend to talk to her. I’ve only got two weeks left to come up with the money to fix the paint, and she could write things that would scare off donors. She could shut us down.”

“No way, man.”

“It’s possible. They say the pen is mightier than the sword.”

“Yeah, that’s why we carry guns in the hood.”

Sam cast the youth a skeptical eye. “And look what good it’s done you. No guns, my friend. And no reporters. I practically had to run her out of the building the other day. She’s trouble.”

“You already got enough of that.”

“No kidding.”

The woman headed straight for the office, head held high, dark brown hair swept up on top of her head like royalty. A queen expecting to command everyone in sight. What was her name? Burns or something, Sam recalled. She figured she was going to burn him. Splatter his sorry hide all over her newspaper. Slam the doors and lock them tight.

Not a chance. He had given his life to this place, and he believed without any doubt that God had commissioned him to the work he was doing with these children. Anything that rose against him became a part of the spiritual war he was fighting. And he certainly wouldn’t allow a prying reporter to sabotage his efforts.

At least she’d remembered the center’s rules and was wearing a plain white blouse. Tall and lean, she had the stride of a runway model as she crossed the floor in her belted slim gray slacks and high heels.

“Acts like she owns the place,” Raydell remarked.

Sam chuckled mirthlessly. “Yeah, comes gliding in here like a Stealth bomber out to do her damage.”

“Just let her try.”

“Calm down, Raydell. This is God’s battle.”

“She better not try nothing. Ain’t nobody messin’ with my people.”

Pumped up now, the young man was flexing his muscles and clenching his fists as if ready to knock the reporter out with a single punch. Sam shook his head and focused on the game again.

“Shoot, Abdul!” he shouted. “You’re in perfect position. Go for it!”

Raydell elbowed Sam and pointed to a heavyset teenager standing flat-footed beneath the basket. “Hey, look at Natasha. She got concrete shoes, or what?”

“Jump, Natasha!” Sam called out. “Get those feet off the floor, girl!”

Raydell threw back his head and laughed. “Aw, man, that’s pitiful! I’m going back outside where at least I got something interesting to watch.”

“Later, Raydell,” Sam said as the teen sauntered away. He glanced at his watch. Almost time for activity change. He would send Miss Burns packing as soon as he could hand over these kids to someone else. She had stepped into the office, and he could see her talking to Caleb. One hand on her hip, she leaned over and said something to the boy.

That’s right, Cleopatra. Try to work your wiles on a seventeen-year-old boy. It won’t get you what you want.

A moment later the office door opened and Caleb walked out. But instead of coming for Sam, he headed toward the row of small rooms where the younger children were doing crafts projects and listening to stories. The young man poked his head into one room after another. Finally, he headed up the stairs.

So that was her scheme. She knew she couldn’t get anything out of Sam, so she had set her sights on his Haven partner. Young Caleb had been sent off to fetch Terell Roberts while she sharpened her claws. Smooth move, Cleopatra, but—

“Uncle Sam, I think the basketball is flat, sir.” Tenisha tugged on the hem of his T-shirt. “It don’t bounce good, and Gerald keeps on stealin’ it away from me.”

He studied the orange basketball as players maneuvered it around on the makeshift court. “It’s still got air, Tenisha.”

“I can’t do it, Uncle Sam.” Her face crumpled as she clenched her fists. “I told you! I can’t play basketball. I can’t run.”

“Hey, now—what’s this I can’t nonsense? Is that how we talk at Haven?”

“No, sir, but I really can’t. My legs don’t work good ’cause of the palsy, and every time somebody throws me the ball, Gerald pushes me out of the way and takes it.”

Sam focused on the skinny boy with buckteeth that stuck out so far he had a permanent groove on his bottom lip. Gerald carried a massive chip on his shoulder because he’d been bullied for years about his appearance. The kid had learned that Tenisha made a handy target when he felt the urge to take his frustrations out on someone.

“Stealing the ball is part of the game, Tenisha,” Sam told her gently. “But pushing is illegal. Tell you what, next time Gerald pushes you, fall down flat and start wailing.”

“You mean crying?”

“Just let out a squawk loud enough to get the referee’s attention. Who’s ref today?” He glanced at the court. “Okay, see Patrick over there with the whistle? If you fall down and squawk, he’ll notice what’s going on and call it. Before too long, Gerald will foul out of the game.”

“Ain’t that cheatin’?”

“Not if he really pushes you. The pros do it all the time.” He paused as his line of vision centered on Miss Cleopatra Burns, notebook out and pen in hyperdrive, having a big confab with Terell.

“Hey, T-Rex!” he hollered. Then he patted the girl on the back. “Go on out there, Tenisha. Don’t let Gerald mess with you.”

Before the codirector of Haven could spill the beans about their problems with the health department, Sam hoofed it over to him. “Terell, this is the reporter I told you about, and we don’t—”

“Anamaria Burns,” she cut in, turning to him and sticking out her hand. “How are you this afternoon, Mr. Hawke?”

“Not happy to find you back here.” He took her thin, strong hand and gave it a hard squeeze. “I told you we don’t have anything to say about paint.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell her,” Terell spoke up. “This lady doesn’t listen, man.”

Sam regarded his best friend. Terell was the color of rich, dark coffee, but otherwise he looked like Sam’s twin. However, while Sam was the keeper of rules and the master of the clock, Terell functioned as Haven’s mascot. A teddy bear.

Today, as usual, a child hugged him, small arms wrapped around the man’s large leg as if clinging to a tree trunk. He held a little girl with blond hair on his back, her cheek resting on his head and her arms around his thick neck. She was asleep.

“Terell and I discussed this the other day,” Sam told the reporter. “We don’t think it’s a good idea to talk to you.”

“She won’t take no for an answer,” Terell said. “She keeps on saying she’ll write about the good we’re doing here.”

“She’s going to make a big deal about the paint.”

“I can write the article any way I want,” the reporter interjected.

“I’ve been burned by the press before,” Terell added. “But I don’t know, Sam. Maybe she could help us.”

“Does my opinion carry any weight around here?” Sam shot back.

“Not as much as you like to think, dog,” Terell replied. As he spoke, his face split into a grin, and his distinctive deep laugh rolled up out of his chest. He guffawed for a moment, the little boy who clung to his leg joining in with a giggle.

Sam turned on Cleopatra. “Is that the focus of your story, Miss Burns? The good things we do at Haven?”

“Well, no, but—”

“That’s what I thought. You’re going to write about our building, and how we don’t meet city code and the health department is breathing down our necks.”

“How long do you have to fix the paint problem?” she asked.

“Two weeks,” Terell said.

Sam rolled his eyes. “Way to spill the beans, T-Rex.”

“Two weeks is not long.” She scribbled on her notepad. “Are you planning to raise funds, or do you have an account set up for emergencies?”

“An account!” Terell started laughing again. “Did you see any of these kids pay to get in here? None of our donors are handing over enough money to set aside extra, ma’am. We pulled together the start-up money from what was left after my NBA days with the Magic, and now we’re basically what you’d call a charity case.”

“You played professional basketball, Mr. Roberts?” she asked, writing fast.

Sam eyed his friend in dismay. “You’re going to give her enough for a book, aren’t you, Terell? Sure, tell her everything.”

“No way, man. Not about DFS and all that.”

“Division of Family Services?” Ana spoke up. “They have a problem with Haven, too?”

“I can hardly wait to read the article,” Sam growled.

“Well, why don’t you handle it then?” Terell glanced at his gold Rolex watch, one of the few remaining luxuries from his once-lucrative career. “It’s time for activity change, anyhow. I’ll take care of it, and you talk to Miss Burns.”

“I don’t want to talk to her. I want her to leave.”

“Listen, Mr. Hawke,” she said. “I already have enough information here to include Haven in my article, so you might as well fill in a few holes. I can always talk to DFS myself.”

Sam stared at Terell. Terell stared back. Ever since their basketball days at Louisiana State University, the two had butted heads. Sam was intense, driven, edgy. Terell loved everyone, saw the silver lining in each situation and would give away his last dime. Sam had practiced on the basketball court for hours, honing his skills, pushing himself to his limits. Terell arrived late to practice, barely passed his college classes and led the team to one victory after another on raw talent. Sam trusted no one. Terell believed the best about everyone he met. So-called friends had conned, manipulated and cheated him out of most of his money, yet he never held a grudge. The two men loved each other like brothers.

“I’ll talk to her,” Sam said finally. “You’ve got five minutes, Miss Burns.”

“Ana.” She smiled, radiant and suddenly prettier than he’d realized.

“Shall we go to my office?” he asked. “It’s quieter.”

“Your office?” The smile vanished. “We can talk here. I don’t have a problem with noise.”

He studied her for a moment, observing the brown eyes and reading in them something he hadn’t expected. Fear. So, Miss Ana Burns had a chink in her armor. She didn’t want to go into his office. His turf. Seeing an advantage, he seized it.

“I’d like to sit down,” Sam told her. “Been on my feet all day, you know. Follow me.”

“But…” she tried. “But I…”

Ana matched his stride as Sam headed across the room. Unusually long legs, he noted. Most women barely reached his shoulder, but a tilt of this one’s head would put her face disconcertingly close to his.

Military training had taught Sam the art of inspection, and instinct took over despite his determination to ignore the pesky reporter. Her firm chin and aquiline nose created a sharp profile, he noted, which was softened by large brown eyes and full lips. Squared shoulders eased into gentle curves. Her topknot had clearly started the morning tightly coiled. But the day had loosened it, and now wisps of dark hair trailed around her ears and down the back of her long neck. The combination of prickly and soft intrigued Sam—which in turn, irritated him no end.

A short distance away, Terell blew the whistle for activity change. Like jelly beans, kids poured out of the little classrooms, down the stairs and across the basketball court. Despite his annoyance at her intrusion, Sam felt glad that the reporter was seeing the large numbers of children and teenagers who had found a secure place to spend their summer days.

Without Haven, most would be loitering on the streets, vulnerable to the drug dealers, drive-by shootings, prostitution and gang activity that proliferated in these neighborhoods. Here, they stood a much greater chance of not becoming a statistic—one of the hundreds of young men who ended up in hospital emergency rooms with knife or bullet wounds, or one of the countless unmarried teenage girls who became pregnant each year.

Giving them hope was Sam’s passion. His mission. He had blown assignments in the past. Made mistakes. Fatal flaws. This time he would not fail.

He stepped into the front office and clapped a hand on Caleb’s back. “How’s the computer, buddy?”

“A pile of junk.” Caleb squinted into the screen as he spoke his familiar refrain.

“Hey, get on the Internet and see if you can dig up a little dirt on somebody for me—her name’s Ana Burns.”

“There’s no modem on this old thing, sir, and I—” Caleb glanced up, saw the woman, and then laughed in embarrassment. “Oh, hey there, Miss Burns.”

“Hello, Caleb.”

“I thought you wanted to talk to Terell.”

“I intended to, but it looks like I’m stuck with Uncle Sam.”

The teen grinned. “Lucky you.”

“By the way,” she addressed Sam as they walked down a short hallway to his personal office. “My name is Anamaria Cecilia Guadalupe Burns, and you won’t dig up any dirt on me. I’m clean. Your dog can vouch for that.”

“Your name…you’re Hispanic?” he asked, pulling the door shut behind him and pointing her to a chair.

She stood statuelike, eyeing the room, her knuckles white on the handle of her purse. Then, moving suddenly, she turned and jerked open the door. With two quick paces, she stepped to the chair and sat, her hips on its edge as though she intended to leap up at any moment.

“I prefer the term Latina, ” she said, flipping open her reporter’s notebook. “My mother was born and raised in Mexico. My father’s ancestors came from Scotland. I grew up in Brownsville, Texas, graduated from UTB with a degree in English and worked at the Brownsville Herald before moving here five months ago.”

“Ah,” he said, taking a seat behind his desk.

“And you?”

“Wyoming.”

“What brought you to St. Louis?”

“Haven.” He straightened a stack of papers, tamping the edges before setting them back on his desk. “I thought this interview was about lead paint.”

“And I thought you wanted a broader story.”

“You don’t need my background for that. Write about the kids. Most live in government-subsidized housing projects. Few have a father in the home. We have a mix of African-American and Caucasian, but we—”

“So I’ve observed.” Her eyebrows lifted like a pair of raven’s wings. “Sorry to interrupt, but would you mind if I asked the questions?”

Sam leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers across his stomach. The lady was a major pain.

“I like your office, by the way,” she said, brown eyes flashing from one side of the small room to the other. Long dark lashes curled up almost to her eyebrows. “Orderly. Neat. But you ought to clean the front area. That pile of wet towels is sprouting mold.”

“Would you like to take over management of our laundry room, Miss Burns?”

“It’s Ana, and the posters are peeling off the walls out there, too. That office is a wreck.”

“We have lead paint in our laundry room,” he informed her. “I can’t let the kids work there anymore, because the paint is peeling even worse than those posters out front. So our towel mass is becoming critical, and we could use an adult to help out.”

“I’m not that into laundry,” she said. “I send most of my clothing to a dry cleaner.”

He sat back and studied her. “Ah. A dry cleaner type.”

“Do you have a problem with dry cleaners?”

“I have a problem with people taking up my valuable time discussing wet towels.”

She picked up her notebook. “When did you meet Terell Roberts?”

“At LSU. We both played basketball there.”

“And then you turned pro?”

“He did. Played for the Magic and the Clippers. I went into the military. Marines.”

“Ah,” she said. “A Marine type.”

He couldn’t hold back a grin. “Not a Marine type. A Marine. I brought that training to Haven, because I believed if I could teach discipline and respect, the kids would benefit.”

“So you contributed the military atmosphere, while Terell came up with the seed money to start the operation.”

“Haven is a team effort. We rely on our patrons for funding. Our volunteers add their ideas to make this a better place. Nobody has all the answers to help these kids.”

“So what’s your motivation?”

“Like I said. Helping kids.”

“Really?” She sounded skeptical. “Terell wants to help children, too, I suppose.”

“Yes, he does.”

“Why these kids? And why you?”

He put his head on the padded chair back and closed his eyes. How could he explain the complex and painful reasons why he had sought out Terell Roberts after so many years? How could anyone even begin to understand what had compelled him to spend every last cent he had saved, to work countless hours tearing out old plaster and making the place habitable, to come each morning knowing it might be the last day Haven’s doors would open?

Lifting his head, he gazed at Ana Burns. She sat across from him, her notebook propped up and her pen poised. Her straight shoulders and long neck were held in that regal pose now so familiar to him. But for the first time, he noted a small pendant at her throat. A gold cross set with garnets.

“Your necklace,” he said.

Her hand moved up to touch the cross. “My mother gave it to me on my fifteenth birthday—the Quinceañero. It’s a special occasion.”

“It’s a reminder of your family…and your faith?”

“God is important to me.” Her dark eyes pinned him. “Without Him, I wouldn’t exist.”

Stunned at her bluntness, Sam couldn’t respond for a moment. She dropped her focus to her notebook, as if reading over what she had written, but he could see that her eyes weren’t moving.

He let out a breath. “Then maybe you’ll understand this. I started Haven because I believed it was what God wanted me to do.”

She had stopped taking notes and was moving her pen tip around on the paper in a tiny blue circle. “You believe God talked to you?”

“In a way.”

“Is it the same with Terell?”

“Terell is a strong Christian. When we were in college together, he led me to Christ.”

She looked up. “Led you to Christ?”

“To salvation. I’d been raised in a Christian home and had believed in Jesus from early childhood. Terell helped me see that it’s not enough to believe. A person has to commit his life to Christ.”

She wrote something in her notebook. “So, your patrons…you run Haven as a religious organization?”

“We get some financial support from churches, and we maintain Christian principles. But Haven is nondenominational. We’re not-for-profit, and we operate under those governmental regulations. We don’t qualify for any exemptions as a religious group.”

“You’ve met state guidelines in every area except this lead paint situation?”

“As far as I know. They allowed us to go ahead and open, but different agencies keep coming around to inspect. We’re doing our best.”

He stood, the subject touching a sore place in his gut. “The codes, the regulations…the whole thing is difficult. When Terell and I found this building and bought it, we thought we’d just need to clean it and then get the center going. We had big plans for the outside—turning the parking lot into a top-notch basketball court with bleachers and a snack bar, setting up a tennis court, even putting sod down for a park area with picnic tables. But we haven’t had time to start on any of that because of all the work we’ve had to do inside—wiring, plumbing, rehabbing the whole basic structure. We had to widen doorways and enlarge the bathrooms. Had to buy special toilets. Had to put in ramps. Lights. Exit signs. Washer and dryer.”

He moved across the room and began restacking the books on his small shelf. “Don’t get me started on the kitchen,” he continued. “We’re not even close to code there. We’re not certified, so we can’t provide hot meals or homemade refreshments—which was one way we hoped to make a little money. At this point, all we can sell is packaged snacks, popcorn and sodas, and we do that at cost.”

“I had no idea it was so complicated,” she murmured, taking notes. “It sounds like an uphill battle.”

“Battle is the right word for it. Right after we purchased the building, vandals broke into the main level. It was still empty, so they couldn’t find anything to steal. But they smashed out windows, spray-painted walls, demolished toilets. We’ve had to use the bathrooms downstairs, which is a problem for our kids with special needs. Some of our volunteers have offered to build ramps, and those have to meet code. We’ve been working like crazy to fix the restrooms on this level, and we’re nearly there. The punks destroyed nearly all our light fixtures, too, so now we’re working to buy and install new ones.”

“Your military background must be a help. If you see this as a battle, I’m sure you’re determined to win.”

“We’ll win. But there are times I’d almost rather be stranded in an Iraqi sandstorm.” He rubbed the back of his neck, remembering. “Terell and I can handle the kids, and our volunteers will get the building into shape. But we need more of two things we lack. Time and money.”

“If Terell played professional basketball, he must have earned a huge salary.” She frowned, the raven wings drawing closer. “Maybe you could convince the city to give you more time.”

“Terell can tell you about his pro career, if he chooses, but he gave Haven all he had left. He’s a good man. We’re both willing to sacrifice everything for this place, but we can’t live forever without bringing in some income. And we can’t keep the doors open unless we have a solid financial operating base. The trouble is that our donors are reluctant to fork over more money until they’re sure we’re on solid footing with the city, the county, the state and probably the Feds.”

“Makes perfect sense.” She leaned back, relaxing in her chair for the first time since she’d entered his office. “And it explains your reluctance to let me publicize your problems.”

As the light of understanding shone in her eyes for the first time, the knots in Sam’s shoulders loosened a little. He picked up a file from his desk.

“Our donors are mostly individuals or small-business owners,” he explained. “Churches have given us some money, but we don’t have any corporate sponsors. We can’t afford to pay salaries for a fund-raiser and a public relations expert. Basically, it’s up to Terell and me to carve out the time for those things.”

“Doesn’t sound like it’s your cup of tea.”

“We’re both athletes. I’m a soldier.” He dropped the file on his desk. “Nah, it’s not our thing.”

“Mind if I take a look at your donor list?”

“Why?”

“I’d like to take down the names and give some of them a call. If I can get a few good quotes about the vision these people have for Haven, my article might help you drum up additional support.”

He considered her request. “If our donors agree to be interviewed, it’s fine with me. But I don’t want you to publish names without their permission.”

“No problem.” She took the file he handed to her and scanned the list. “This is good. I know some of these people. Isn’t Richard Hayes the CEO of a moving van company?”

“He’s been great. But so far, it’s all been personal donations. He hasn’t involved his business yet, and that’s where the big money is.”

“These are fairly large churches, aren’t they?” she asked, jotting information as she went down the list.

“Sure, but they’re in low-income areas. They send us a lot of volunteer help, but they don’t have much money to give.”

Her finger stopped at a name. “I know this man—Jim Slater. He goes to my church.” She looked up, her face transformed by that radiant smile. “He runs an adoption agency, doesn’t he?”

“It’s called Young Blessings Adoption Services,” he told her. “Jim’s on our board of directors, and he drops by fairly often to help out with the kids. I’m assuming he must be well-off, because he’s done a lot for Haven. He paid for new tile in the bathroom. In fact, I have an appointment with him later this afternoon. To talk about the lead paint problem.”

“I bet he’ll help. I’ve worked with Jim in the church nursery a couple of times. He’s a gentle man, and so good with children. He lost his wife to cancer, you know.”

“I didn’t realize that.”

“Well, this is great.” She looked up from her notebook. “One more thing, Sam. Terell mentioned a problem with DFS.”

Sam shook his head. “Your story’s on lead paint, Miss Burns. That’s all I’m willing to discuss.”

“But why would Family Services be after you?”

“They’re not ‘after’ us. You make it sound like we’re criminals.”

“Are you?”

He scowled. “Of course not. If you work with children and don’t meet your health codes, then DFS starts sniffing. Look, I’ve given you all the time I can, Miss Burns.”

“Ana.” She stood. “So, how’s the little girl in the corner?”

He thought for a moment, picturing the forlorn child who never spoke. “We’ve tried, but we can’t get her involved in our activities. Still, she seems to feel safe with us. She comes every day.”

“She’s kind of a lost child, isn’t she?”

“Invisible. That’s the word I use. She’s not the only one. We have several kids who drift at the fringes, looking on, and trying not to be noticed. They’re like ghosts. Haunting. We do our best to involve them, but we don’t insist that they join the activities.”

He started for the door. “Why don’t you talk to the girl? And put in a load of laundry while you’re at it.”

He was halfway down the hall before he realized he’d left her alone in his office. An unsupervised guest. A snoopy reporter. He swung around, strode back into the room and took her arm.

“This way out, Miss Burns.”

“Ana.”

“Cleopatra,” he muttered, leading her through the front office. He gave her a nudge out into the main area, where the youngsters were playing basketball. “There she is—in her corner. See if you can get through to her. Even a name would be helpful.”

“I don’t have time.”

“Sure you do.” He studied Ana, surprised at the pale wariness that filtered across her face. “We’re not helping her. Maybe you can.”

“I can’t, sorry. I have to make these phone calls.”

“Scared?” he asked, taking a step closer, meeting her almost face-to-face. “You’re happy to announce Haven’s problems in your article, but when it comes to understanding what we really do, what our mission means—”

“I’m not scared,” she snapped back. “I’m just not comfortable with children.”

“You work in your church nursery.”

“One-on-one, I mean.” Her eyes narrowed and her soft lips pursed. “Okay, Uncle Sam. I’ll go talk to her. I’ll talk to the other kids, too. Maybe I’ll find out a few of your secrets.”

“I don’t have secrets,” he called after her as she started to walk away.

“Yes, you do. Wyoming. You and Terell. The Marines.” She shrugged. “And my name is not Cleopatra.”

He watched as she headed across the room toward the shadowy corner. The little girl spotted her and quickly turned away.

The lightbulb pulls on my eyeballs as though they are attached by strings. I fear they will come right out of my head and leave me blind. Seeing nothing but the darkness. Then I will be even more afraid than I am now.

Quickly, I close my eyes, hiding them safely behind the skin of my eyelids. It’s black in this place, and I can feel the pain. Fear tastes like blood on my tongue. It smells like sweat. Not the good sweat of my father when he comes home from work. This is the bad sweat of thieves and murderers and my father when he has drunk too much beer. Darkness curls around me like monster shadows and demon smoke, choking me and flooding my nostrils with the evil smell.

Afraid, afraid, afraid of this pain and sweat more than of blindness, I open my eyes and stare at the lightbulb. My eyes float upward into the light, the shining and shimmering light. It is so bright that my eyeballs must surely burst open…

…and it is the sun, gleaming on my sister’s white teeth as she laughs. She pulls on my hand, urging me into the light, and I run with her. We race down the beach, our feet flying across the loose sand, our toes digging into the soggy, slushy sand, and now we skip out into the water.

I call to her. Hold my hand, Aurelia! Stay beside me!

A wave rolls in and slaps our legs, and we gasp and cry out in shock and delight. So cold! So wet! Oh, we love this water, and the way it beckons us deeper and deeper.

Come! Come on, my sister calls me.

No, Aurelia, I tell her. I squeeze her fingers tightly with my own. Stay close to me. Stay near the shore where it is safe! In the ocean live big fish with sharp teeth to bite us. In the ocean, coral can cut open our toes and make us sick. Sea urchins can stick their spiny needles into our feet, and jellyfish can wrap their poison threads around our legs. Seaweed can pull us under so that we would drown.

Stay with me, Aurelia. Stay near, and I will keep you safe.

We dance in the waves, my sister and me. We march up and down like soldiers. We play trumpets and guitars in our mariachi band. We chase our children, those naughty waves, as they run away from us and then back into our arms again.

Oh, we are wet, and Mama will be angry!

But the sun is hot, and our skirts will be dry by the time we walk all the way home. The sun beats down on us like the drummer in our band, and we sing to it. We fling water upward into the sky like a baptism. And the droplets shower down on us, shiny crystals, God’s diamonds. His blessings fall on Aurelia and me as we play in the sunshine. As we lift our faces to the sun and laugh at the light sifting through our black lashes. Oh, the sun…

…the round, glowing bulb of light. Now the pain is gone, and the fear creeps away, back into the darkness, and I thank God who brought me the lightbulb.

Chapter Three

“H i, there.” Ana approached the girl.

Brown eyes focused on the basketball game, the child sat on the concrete floor. With her legs tucked to one side, she gripped the hem of her skirt with both hands, as if she could somehow tug it over her knees. She wore the usual white T-shirt, her arms like thin straws hanging from the cupped sleeves.

“Can you please tell me where the bathrooms are?” Ana asked.

The girl said nothing. Her tongue darted out to moisten her lower lip, but her eyes remained glued to the game. Ana considered walking away. Obviously this child wanted nothing to do with her. She had chosen her dark corner, and she intended to stay in it.

Ana’s palms dampened, and she smoothed down her slacks. She, too, had known the need to hide.

“Los baños, por favor?” she asked in her mother’s native Spanish.

The girl’s brown eyes darted to her.

She had understood.

“Sabe donde quedan los baños?” she tried again, keeping her voice casual.

The child looked away. “No se,” she whispered.

Ana smiled. “Esta bien.”

Taking a step closer, Ana eased down onto the floor nearby. She leaned against the cool wall and took off her shoes. “Oh, my feet,” she said in Spanish. “These things are killing me! Take a look how high the heels are.”

She held out a shoe. The girl shook her head, her attention back on the basketball players.

“You’re smart to wear sandals,” Ana continued. “I’ve been up and down the sidewalks today. I bet I have blisters.”

She levered one leg over the other and examined the bottom of her foot. The child’s dark eyes slid across, studying the woman’s toes as Ana checked them.

“There’s a blister. See?” She angled her foot in that direction. “That really hurts. I need to soak it in some warm water. Do you know where I could do that?”

“Down the hall,” the girl whispered in Spanish. “You have to take the steps to the basement.”

“I wonder if it would be okay for me to go barefoot. There are so many rules here.”

“It’s all right. They won’t notice you.”

Ana sat for a moment, absorbing the dark corner where this little one had found her private haven. Where had she come from? Why had she chosen the shadows? And what made Ana’s heart beat so heavily each time those brown eyes focused on her face?

Was it possible this skinny child had a story Ana needed to tell? Carl Webster, her editor, had asked for several articles on the lead paint as well as accompanying sidebars. The deadline was a week and a half away, and Ana had no time to detour into any other subject. In addition to the series, she had to keep up with the small assignments that landed on her desk each day. If she couldn’t produce quality reporting, Carl would replace her. He had made that clear. There was no way Ana could allow that to happen.

Haunted, Sam Hawke had described the invisible children. A small girl with haunted eyes was not worth Ana’s time, was she? Neither was Terell Roberts, who even now—across the basketball court—sat with one child draped over his back, a second in his lap and a third at his feet. He was rubbing the back of the little boy at his feet, and he and the girl on his knee kept tickling each other. Again she felt a vague unease, and she had to look away. Maybe it was innocent. Maybe this little girl in the shadows had nothing to tell.

Ana lifted her hand and touched the cross at her throat. As a child, she had gone to church with her parents and learned about God. But not until later, after her sister’s death, had she given herself to Him wholly, completely, falling into His arms like a drowning woman pulled from the sea at the last moment. The last gasp. The final breath. In that instant, she would have died and been glad. Welcomed the end.

But God had saved her. Truth had dragged her up from the sandy bottom, the clutching seaweed, the deadly undertow. She had seen His hand reaching out to her, and she had taken it. Even now, years later, she recalled that moment when she had chosen to live. And all the way out of the depths, onto the shore and along the pathways of her life, He had stayed at her side.

Now, each morning when she opened her eyes, she searched for God, prayed to Him, and gave herself to Him again. It was the only way she could survive. Her morning run to the river, the articles she wrote, the people she encountered, each activity throughout the day until she dropped into bed at night belonged to Him.

Her faith didn’t sound exactly like Sam Hawke’s. He had spoken of committing his life to Christ—almost as though Jesus were a military commander who required absolute obedience. Ana saw God as the Father. She had met Him one desperate day, and to Him she belonged with her whole heart.

As she studied the skinny girl in her faded green skirt, Ana prayed. Why this child, Father? Why did You draw my eyes to this little one in the corner? Has that huge man across the room harmed her in any way? Can I do anything about it? What do You want of me?

“Could you lead me to the ladies’ room?” Ana whispered the Spanish words. “This is only my second time to visit Haven, and I’m afraid I might get lost.”

“I can’t take you.” The girl hung her head. “Ask someone else.”

Ana relaxed against the wall and lifted her eyes to the water-stained white ceiling. She ought to leave the child alone. Talk to some of the others in the building, concentrate on her lead paint story. Upstairs, she could interview the construction crew. They would know how many rooms had been contaminated with the deadly old paint.

She might even approach Terell again—ostensibly to discuss his background in professional basketball. That ought to produce some interesting quotes. She slipped her shoes back on her feet and started to rise.

“Do you know La Ceiba?”

The birdlike voice stopped her.

“La Ceiba?” Ana frowned, trying to think where she might have heard the name. Wasn’t that some kind of tree? She recalled her mother pointing it out in Brownsville—a tree with palmlike leaves and large fruits. Several Ceiba trees grew in their neighborhood, and when the fruit burst open, the silky fiber pulled away from the seed and drifted on the breeze like clouds you could actually touch. Ana had stuffed the fiber into pillows for her dolls’ beds.

“La Ceiba is a tree,” she said.

The girl looked down, her face sad. “Yes, it’s a tree.”

“Why do you ask me this?”

“Because…because I understand your words when you talk to me.”

Ana wondered what her knowledge of Spanish had to do with the silk-cotton tree. “My mother is Mexican,” she explained. “But I grew up in Texas. It’s a long way from here.”

The girl nodded, twisting her fingers together. “Yes, a long way.”

“Where did you come from?”

The girl shook her head and wedged her shoulders into the corner, retreating into the darkness again. Ana ached to ask more questions. Her reporter’s instinct told her to keep pressing, cajole the information out of the girl, make her give up the story. But she sensed it would do no good now. The door had closed.

“I guess I’ll try to find the bathrooms,” she said, getting to her feet. On an impulse, she put out her hand. “My name is Ana.”

The child lifted her left hand and set it softly in Ana’s right palm, as though she might suddenly decide to climb up out of the shadows and come away with this kind stranger. But at the touch of human flesh, the child snatched her hand away and tucked it behind her.

“Me llama Flora,” she said softly. I am called Flora.

A surge of victory welled up inside Ana. “Goodbye, Flora. Hasta mañana. ”

But the girl’s eyes were focused on the game again. Ana stood and walked down the row of classrooms. She found the stairs, the ramp for the special needs children and eventually the bathrooms. In sad shape, they spoke of hard times in the city. Cracked white wall tiles, missing mirrors, vulgar graffiti scrawled across toilet stalls. Ana gazed at the dank room, thinking of those who had passed through before her, doing their damage, uncaring that others would follow.

How could Sam Hawke and Terell Roberts possibly pull together enough money to redeem this place? It would take gallons of paint to cover the crude messages. Repairing the floors would cost a fortune. Did the plumbing even work? She hoped so.

She turned a faucet and let the cool water trickle over her hands. Hope. This was all any of them had. A thin stream of water. A dusty glint of sunlight. A stranger’s hand in the darkness.

Ana dried her fingers on a tissue from her purse and shouldered her bag. If she hurried, she could get back to the newspaper building before Carl left. She would tell the editor about her interviews and fill him in on her plans for each of the articles. And she would mention the child—the many lost children—who straggled into Haven, put on their white T-shirts and found a place to play or rest for a few hours each day.

Pausing, she studied herself in the cracked mirror over the sink. Her heart told her to follow these children and learn their stories. Her gut told her to investigate Terell Roberts and find out what was going on behind closed doors at Haven. She could ask Carl for more time, but would he give it?

She thought of her editor, dipping a doughnut into his coffee and then chewing as his stubby index fingers punched out a memo on his computer keyboard. Carl was an old-school journalist who focused primarily on putting out the paper each day. He hadn’t responded to any of the story ideas she’d left on his desk, so why would he give her time to follow a hunch now?

But how could she let it go—the invisible child and the too-friendly man and the certainty that not all at Haven was as it seemed? Ana fretted as she climbed the stairs back to the main floor. She couldn’t let it go. She wouldn’t.

As she passed the office, she spotted Sam Hawke, once again stripping off a sweat-soaked shirt. Unconscious as a lion in the bush, he stretched his long arms. Muscles flexed and rippled. He scratched his chest and gave a careless yawn. Then he reached into his locker for a dry T-shirt and tugged it over his head.

Ana poked her head through the door. “Hey, Sam.”

He swung around, recognized her, flashed a look of surprise followed quickly by annoyance. “Are you still here?”

“It’s Flora.”

“Huh?”

“The little girl in the corner. Flora.” Giving him a wave of fingernails, she turned away.

He pressed the phone to his ear and tried to keep his voice light. “So, Stu, what’s going on up there? Any more news on our friend?”

“It’s what we thought. Busted. They caught him. All the papers have the story. TV, too. It’s everywhere.”

Swirling his martini, he watched the olive rotate at the bottom of his glass. “Do they have any idea if anyone else is involved?”

“No leads. At least that’s what they’re saying.” The silence on the other end broke as Stu cleared his throat. “Uh, the Feds…they’ve taken his computer. And his file cabinets.”

“But there won’t be any trouble with that. You set things up the way I told you, right?”

“I did what you said.” Heavy breathing. “Look, I’m getting nervous. I can’t have anyone poking around here. My wife…she wouldn’t understand at all. She’d leave me, and I couldn’t handle that. She’d take the house and the car. I’d have nothing left. I mean…I just wouldn’t want to go on, you know?”

“You want me to have a pity party for you, Stu? If you did what I told you to do, you don’t have to worry. Everything will be fine. You’re not lying to me, are you?”

“No, no.”

He took a sip of his drink, savoring the burn as it traveled down his throat. Of course he shouldn’t have relied on Stu to do things right. He ought to have set up the whole thing himself instead of trusting someone else to help out. This was exactly what happened every time he counted on people to keep their end of a bargain. They let him down. They lied to him.

“Look, Stu, I’ve been thinking about moving the operation,” he said. “I might even retire. I could use a break.”

“Retire?”

“This whole thing is beginning to bore me. Besides, I don’t need the stress.” He took another swallow of the martini and wondered when the alcohol would kick in. His head was killing him, and he’d had stomach problems the past couple of days. Of course, he’d hardly been able to eat, so it wasn’t surprising.

“What about the clients?” Stu asked. “We’ve got six on the waiting list.”

“I don’t care about the clients,” he snapped. “I care about clearing out my house, because I don’t believe a word you said about setting up the safeguards in Springfield.”

“I did! I swear it.”

“Good. Then you won’t have any problem taking the product that’s in storage here. Drive down tonight, and I’ll meet you at—”

“I can’t do that! What if someone’s tailing me? What if they’re watching my house? They could follow me.”

“You idiot. You didn’t set it up, did you?”

“I tried, but—”

“You’d better be here tonight to take these things off my hands, Stu.”

“Don’t talk to me that way. Please. I can’t handle your threats. Ever since this started, I’ve been really down, okay? I mean today…this afternoon…I got out my gun. If things get too hot, I don’t think I can take it.”

“Look, Stu, can you get here tonight or not?”

He heard a sniffle on the other end. “I’ll check with the client. I have to make sure I can work the transfer. I’ll do my best.”

“You owe me, Stu. You owe me everything.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll call you later.”

Fool! He dropped the phone into his pocket and slammed his fists on the arms of the chair. This was so typical. Stu was just like all the others—clients and colleagues—thinking only of themselves and what they could get out of him. If trouble erupted, it would be Stu’s fault, that pathetic liar.

No one understood how hard it had been to set everything up. The whole process functioned like clockwork, and all because of his careful planning. He had figured it out, he had put it in place and he ought to reap the benefits.

Instead, he was spending every waking moment watching his back. If the Feds tracked him down, it would all be over. They would make an example out of him, as they had before. Holding him up like some kind of monkey on display. As though what he did was wrong. They had no idea the service he provided. The good that came of his efforts. It wasn’t only his clients who benefited. Certainly not, but you couldn’t explain that.

It was an economy, and he played the role of the middleman. The producer reaped a huge harvest. And the client gained immeasurably. He was only doing his part to facilitate the process.

He downed the final mouthful of his drink. Time for another trip to his special closet. It was the only way he would get any peace.

Sam stepped out of his office and glanced at the small child nestled in the far corner of the recreation center. Flora. Somehow Ana Burns had gotten the little girl to speak. To give her name. How many times had Sam looked at the child, one of so many he couldn’t reach? Across the room, her dark eyes studied him, pinned him.

Accused him.

Like a bullet fired from an assault rifle, the memory of another child’s brown eyes shot into his mind and tore through his heart, wrenching and twisting it. Unable to shield himself from the onslaught, he saw the girl’s thin fingers reaching for him. Smelled the dust on her soft skin as he lifted her in his arms.

He could hear own his breath, heated and heavy. He heard her cries as blood dripped from a bullet wound in her abdomen. The pain he had caused. The terrible, inconceivable, unthinkable thing he had done.

“Oh, God, help me!” The strangled words wrenched from his lips. Sweating, clenching his fists, he swallowed against the knot of pain in his throat. “Forgive me!”

Propelled by the agony in his chest, Sam strode toward the front door. He passed Duke and the dog’s caretaker without a word. Bursting through the metal detector, he stepped out onto the searing pavement.

“Where is she?” he demanded of the youth at the door.

Raydell straightened. “Who?”

“The reporter? Which way did she go?”

“Down the street. Must have parked around the corner. You okay, Sam?”

He started in the direction Raydell had pointed. “Tell T-Rex I’ll be back.”

“What’d she say to you? What’s she gonna do to Haven?”

Unable to explain, Sam broke into a run. As he rounded the corner, her tan Chevy was pulling away from the curb. He leaped in front of it, slammed his palms on the hood, forced her to stop.

Ana braked, threw open her door and jumped out. “Hey, that’s my car you’re beating on, you jerk!”

“The little girl. Flora. She talked to you? Where’s she from?”

“I don’t know. She speaks Spanish.”

“Spanish.” He let out a breath. “Where does she live? What does she need?”

Ana frowned at him. “Why?”

“I have to know.” He struggled to find a plausible reason. “Maybe I can help her.”

She crossed her arms. “What’s going on, Sam?”

He dropped his head, rubbed his eyebrows, fought the tide of emotion that threatened. “It’s nothing,” he managed.

“You chased me around the corner. I nearly ran over you, for pity’s sake. It’s not nothing.”

He nodded. “Okay. All right.” Filling his chest with air, he forced out the words. “Iraq, ’03. The start of the war. I was there. The girl reminded me of someone.” He paused. “Something happened there. In the desert.”

Ana was silent. Her car engine hummed. People passed on the sidewalk. Staring.

Sam tried to make himself move. Return to his normal life. But he knew if he went back into the center, she would be there. Sitting. Looking at him. Gazing with her brown eyes as if she knew.

“Listen, do you want to get something to eat?” Ana asked. “It’s early for supper, but I’m hungry.”

He considered her offer. A kindness, because she saw his obvious struggle. He didn’t much like the woman, didn’t care for what she was doing, the threat she posed to his dream. But for now, she was better than the memory. Better than going back into the center and facing the demon that wouldn’t let him go—no matter how many hours he spent with a counselor, no matter how hard he prayed.

“Yeah,” he said. He rubbed his hand over the stubble of hair he kept short. “There’s a barbecue place down the street. We go there sometimes, Terell and I. We can walk.”

She nodded, stepped back into her car and eased it into its parking space again. Waiting, he pressed his hands on his thighs, drying the perspiration. Ana shut her door and locked it. She walked toward him. Pretty, kind, wary, concerned. Her eyes were brown, too, but older and wiser. Not so frightened. Not so innocent.

“Barbecue,” she said, joining him. “I hope they have onions.”

Ana tugged another napkin from the rectangular dispenser and blotted her chin. This was a mistake. In the first place, she looked like an idiot—dribbling barbecue sauce from the oversize shredded-beef sandwich. Not that she cared how she looked in front of Sam Hawke. But she did want to be as professional as possible at all times. Hard to do when the man kept staring at her with those faded-denim eyes, as though he could see straight into all the places she kept so well hidden. His gaze made her feel off balance, one minute the intrepid reporter and the next a silly schoolgirl oozing barbecue sauce.

She had hoped to talk with him about the incident on the sidewalk, the memory Flora had triggered. Her motive wasn’t all charitable, Ana had to admit. Without taking up too much of her precious remaining time—she had to eat, after all—she hoped she could actually interview Sam. She wanted to find out more about his reasons for founding Haven, his interest in children, the strict military atmosphere he had created there. If she could dig out some information on Terell, even better. And she could always use more details about the lead paint.

But instead of some quiet neighborhood coffee bar where she could question him to the soothing strains of mood music, they had entered a hectic barbecue joint crowded with customers. The shouts of the kitchen workers, the clang of ladles on white ironstone plates, the whoosh of crushed ice falling into empty glasses and the hiss of soda dispensers filled the small room. On top of all that, rhythm-and-blues music blared from a jukebox.

“Pork, chicken or beef?” someone yelled at a customer. The questions from the cooks came rapid-fire, loud and impatient. “Shredded or sliced? Pickles on that? Onions? Potato salad, baked beans or coleslaw? Make up your mind, fella—there’s ten people behind you! You gonna take all day, or what?” There was no way Ana’s recorder would pick up any information she could use. Her hands were so sticky she couldn’t hold her pen.

She had a sneaking suspicion Sam had planned it this way. Despite his obvious distress on the sidewalk earlier, he was too smart not to know she would try to interrogate him. He took a bite of his sliced brisket sandwich, chewed awhile and then licked a dollop of barbecue sauce from the corner of his mouth—the whole time staring at her with those blue eyes. Every time she asked him a question, he tilted his head as though he couldn’t hear—which was probably true. Then he went back to chewing and staring.

As the crowd began to thin, the sound level decreased several decibels. “I’ve got to tell you, Haven feels like a military compound to me,” Ana said. “The dress code, the dog, the guard at the front door. Do you really need so many rules?”

For the first time since they’d met, he smiled at her. “Rules keep people safe. You like that.”

“How would you know what I like?”

“I know.” He tipped up his Coke glass and drained the contents. “You like rules.”

“You don’t know anything about me. We’ve met exactly twice, and I’m the one who interviewed you.”

“Tell me what you know about me, then.”

“You played college basketball, you were in the Marines, you served in Iraq, you founded Haven—”

“That’s not who I am. That’s what I’ve done.” He leaned back. “I brought you here for a reason. Bet you didn’t know that.”

“ I asked you to dinner.”

“I chose the place. Thought I’d see how you like my favorite barbecue joint. You don’t. Too messy.”

“I do like it. The food tastes fine.”

“Yeah, but the napkins. You’ve used seventeen.”

“You counted my napkins?”

“No, but it’s a good guess.” He leaned across the table, his long arms on the red plastic tablecloth. Setting his index fingers on her plate, he gave it a quarter turn. “You don’t like things out of order.”

“How do you know?”

“When I brought your plate to you, I set it with the sandwich at the top. You turned it so the sandwich was at the bottom. When you looked away a minute ago, I turned your plate again. And you moved it back.”

Now she was the one staring. “So I like the main item at the bottom. That doesn’t tell you anything about me.”

“You’ve folded every one of those seventeen used napkins. Used napkins. Folded them.”

“So what?”

“The first time you came to Haven, you learned about our dress code. Today you have on a white shirt of your own. You’re not wearing red or blue, because you know the rules, and you follow them. You follow them, because you like them.”

“That is so lame.”

“You hated the towel pile. You griped about Terell’s office, but you complimented mine. It’s neat. Clean. That’s because I like rules, too.”

“Okay, I do appreciate a certain amount of order in life,” she admitted. “That’s not unusual. And it’s not the most important thing about me.”

“No?” He shrugged. “Then I surrender. What is the most important thing about you, Ana?”

Now he had backed her into a corner. Clever. But Ana had escaped from many corners.

“What’s most important about me can’t be the least bit important to you,” she said. “I’m not the issue here. Haven is. Tell me why you and Terell are so interested in these kids. In two short visits, I’ve observed a child with a bruised cheek, another hiding like a scared rabbit in a corner and a third with cerebral palsy being coerced into playing basketball. That’s enough to set off my alarm bells. What’s going on over there, Sam? What’s with all the rules? And why is Terell forever fawning over the little girls? What are you two men getting out of this?”

“Hold on now. Fawning over little girls?” His brow furrowed. “What are you insinuating, woman? I give you access to Haven, and this is what I get in return? You’ve seen what we do. Terell and I are helping the kids. Don’t you dare write anything else.”

Standing, she shouldered her bag. “And don’t you tell me what I can or can’t write.”

She pushed in her chair, and started for the door. Halfway there, she swung around, stormed back to the table, grabbed the napkin and wadded it into a ball. Then she tossed it at Sam, who caught it neatly in his hand.

She could hear him laughing as he followed her to the door.

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